Land Of The Burnt Thigh: A Lively Story of Women Homesteaders On The South Dakota Frontier

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X THE HARVEST I WAS pony-expressing the mail home one day when I saw a great eagle, with wings spread, flying low and circling around as though ready to swoop upon its prey. It was noon on a late fall day with no sight or sound of life except that mammoth eagle craftily soaring. I turned off the trail to follow its flight. It was the kind of day when one must ride off the beaten trail, when the sun is warm, the air cool and sparkling; even Lakota seemed like a stodgy animal riveted to the earth, and the only proper motion was that of an eagle soaring. Abruptly the eagle swooped down into the coulee out of sight and came up a hundred yards or so in front of me, carrying with it a large bulky object. At the same instant 164 THE HARVEST 165 a shot rang out, the eagle fell, and its bulky prey carne down with a thud. So intent was I upon the eagle that I was not prepared for what happened. At the shot Lakota gave a leap to the right and I went off to the left. I had no more than landed when a rider, whom I had seen lope up out of the coulee as the eagle fell, had my horse by the bit and was bending over me. "Hurt?" he asked. "I don't think so. Just scared," I replied as I got stiffly to my feet. The soft, thick grass had provided a cushioned landing place and saved my bones. The stranger took a canteen from his saddle and gave me a drink of water; led the horses up to form a shade against the bright noon sun, and bade me sit quiet while he went back to see what the eagle had swooped down upon. "A young coyote, just a pup," he announced upon his return. "I'm glad I got that fellah. They are an awful pest." It was a big bird with an eight-foot stretch from wing tip to tip as measured by this plainsman's rule-his hands. "They carry away lambs and attack new-born calves," he said. "They attack people sometimes, but that is rare." He helped me on my horse. "All my fault. Couldn't see you from down in the coulee when I fired at that bird. You musta just tipped the ridge from the other side." He reached over, untied the mail bag and tied it to his saddle. "You were going the other way, weren't you?" I protested . "No hurry. I'll go back with you first." 166 LAND OF THE BURNT THIGH "You don't know where I live, do you?" "Yes, I know," he said laconically. He was a young man -I took him to be under thirty-with a sort of agile strength in every movement. Lean, virile, his skin sunburnt and firm. He wore a flannel shirt open at the throat, buckskin chaps, a plainsman's boots, and his sombrero was worn at an angle. He made no attempt to be picturesque as did many of the range riders. As the horses started off at an easy gallop he checked them. "Better go slow after that shake-up," he said quietly. "I must hurry," I answered. "I'm late with the mail." "These homesteaders are always in a rush. Shore amusin'. Act like the flood would be here tomorrow and no ark built." He spoke in a soft, southern drawl. "They have to do more than build an ark," I told him. "They have to make time count. The country is too new to accomplish anything easily." "Too old, you mean. These plains have been hyar too long for a little herd of humans to make 'em over in a day." "We have fourteen months to do it in," I reminded him, referring to the revised proving-up period. "You'll be mighty sore and stiff for a few days," he said as he laid the mail sack down on the floor; "sorry, miss, I scared your horse," and touching his ten-gallon hat he was gone. "Where did he hail from?" Ma Wagor demanded from the store where she had been watching. "He's not from Blue Springs, Ma." "I declare you are as tormentin' as an Indian when it comes to finding out things," Ma exclaimed in...